Corrupted Holy Maiden's Holy Night of Corrupted Holies
by ItsaRandomUsername
Summary: Jeanne d'Arc Alter has the holiday blahs, and it's up to you to try to snap her out of her funk. (Contain extra lewds with the other Jeannes, too.)
1. Merry--

Disclaimer:  
 _The following story contains adult material._ _Fate/Grand Order_ _and its related concepts and ideas are the intellectual properties of Kinoko Nasu, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., Aniplex, DelightWorks, and other respective rights holders._ _This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising._

* * *

 ** _Corrupted Holy Maiden's Holy Night of Corrupted Holies_**

One day, in the holiday season, the White Maid of Orleans, Jeanne d'Arc, approaches you as you, done with your training for the day, leave the holo-field. "Master, may I make a peculiar request of you?"

You reply "Of course, Jeanne. What's the problem?" Asked with her usual strait-lace, but with such a palpable weight on her shoulders, you can't bring yourself to do anything but raptly hear her out.

"It's my sister." She says, and because of you feel incredibly pressured right from the start. "Put simply, she's very…bothered right now.

"I've tried to speak to her, to help her through it, but she won't listen to me. She rejects me outright. Even more harshly than she has done in the past." The Ruler's shoulders slump, and she clenches a fist in quiet solidarity in front of her heart, which surely hurts very much right now.

Sometimes 'family' isn't enough, you reply. Sometimes it's because someone is 'family' with someone else that they can so easily disregard the other.

Jeanne nods in agreement. "She's having a hard time right now, and the only way for her to heal is to let go. To let go and accept. But, there's so much anger. So much resentment. She has to make the choice herself. And she slams the door in my face, again and again. There's only so much that I alone can do, Master.

"…So, if you would, help her. Please." Her eyes, azure as God's own blue skies, are heavy with relinquish, and trust that she would put in you.

On some days even a saint needs a helping hand. You do not think too long and hard on your answer. You know that this is the right thing to do. You likewise nod, answer commit to the decision to talk to her. You crack your knuckles, knowing there's a tough job ahead.

"Grace be with you." Jeanne bows. "In the meantime, I shall pray for your success and safety," and as your feet clop against the immaculately white linoleum floor she does just that and clasps her hands together.

Well. Pressure's on now.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

As the number of Chaldeas' allies grew with each passing Order, so too did the very halls of the establishment proportionally expand. While the original facilities had been by no means meager, spacious enough to accommodate the organization's multitude of members, and distinguished by the Enlightenment-sensibilities of minimalist utilitarian architecture favored by the magi who had designed the compound, it was because of the repeated, accumulated summonings of empire-builders, kingdom-administrators, and those with creative visions and the means to act upon those designs that the mountain enclave spread outwards and upwards in rapid renovation. In that harsh, cold environment, it grew stubbornly, persistently, in spite of it all. Like a cancer persistent in spite of the treatment that the King of Magic would so apply, a shining beacon in the dark, the final bastion of humanity's future grew, hoping against hope. Many a Servant's ability of Territory Creation was put to use, and niche after niche was added to Chaldea. Quality of life additions, personal touches that were absent in the original design plans.

In short, Chaldeas has recently gotten itself a proper open bar. One that the Black Maid of Orleans, Jeanne d'Arc, is moodily abusing with seemingly no end in sight. Rows of bottles are within her grasp. Vintage liquor, _strong_ spirits. Enough of which can placate even a one as post-human as a Servant. She throws her head back, noisily gulps down a glass of firewater, pours herself another one and repeats the process. You heard this Jeanne long before you had ever seen her. Any bottle that is emptied is thrown like a glass missile and smashed against the walls adjacent to her. "GILLES! YOU WOOOORM! ANOTHERRR!" with a slur as much as a snarl she hollers at the bartender.

"At once, LA PUCELLEEEEE!" The wide-eyed Caster screeches in affirmative ecstasy. Since, incidentally, Gilles de Rais was on shift as the bartender, and he would never think to disobey her, there is no chance her wellspring of alcohol will run dry anytime soon. Strangely cutting in the vest, shirt, and tie of the uniform, he grabs a fresh bottle of brandy from the back shelf behind him, and despite his madness expertly slides the vessel all the way from where he stands to her position. She grabs it with the same lethal, precise speed a snake would use to snatch a leaping frog in midair, and with the bottle in hand and a whiny growl on her lips begins to refill her cup anew.

Her intensity can be felt across the room. It wafts over the tables and chairs as strongly as the smoky stench of burnt flesh caught on wind blowing over a battlefield, or a sacrificial yard.

Yup, she is in a truly bad mood. You knew that it was going to be tough, but if you knew that it was going to be this tough this early on a part of you wishes you could have denied her request and let it sort itself out in time. But, she put her faith in you. And that's all that matters.

Opening the door causes a bell to ring, audible even over the smooth jazz Christmas muzak, the signal that a new guest has arrived. Additionally, the sound of your footsteps on the bar-restaurant's hardwood flooring, which sounds quite different from when you walk over Chaldeas' usual halls, further marks your arrival into this dangerous territory. There is no sneaking into here, nor is there a chance for undetected escape. There's no other where to go but deeper into the room, with the Caster and the Avenger. With a smile that closes his bugged-out eyes and stretches his thin, rubbery lips from ear to ear, Gilles de Rais does what is expected of good customer service and warmly welcomes you to the eatery/watering hole. "MASTER! Welcome, WELCOME! May I interest you in one of our COOL specials?!" He shakes and vocalizes dynamically at your arrival, a picture of boundless excitement.

Perhaps a little too warmly. But it's Gilles. It's the thought that counts, and he surely put all of his twisted, tormented thoughts into his zest for this current job of his. You tell him no, not yet, and proceed to sit at the bar, a stools-worth of space away from Jeanne, the Dragon Witch, and the current source of Jeanne, the Holy Maiden's troubles.

Unlike Gilles, she hasn't yet given your presence any regards. She only fusses with her glass in hand, and the drink swirls gently.

The air around her positively reeks, alcohol and smoke, like a tavern destroyed in a siege. How much has she had? Lord only knows how many broken bottles can answer that. Asking what's wrong, say that this isn't like her, try to break the ice with Jeanne d'Arc's 'younger sister,' Jeanne d'Arc…Alter.

"HAAAH? I'm me, dammit, you idiot of a Master." Jeanne Alter looks from the corner of her eye to you. "'m no one else but me, 'n dun you dare everrr fuhget it."

True. Of the two Jeannes, this one is far more indulgent. That in of itself isn't that strange. Drinking like this, though…

"Dun care. If you argue that I-I'll roast you on a stake fer, fer stupidity, you boor."

Just as well. No one would want to argue the literal meaning of that, and that's not even why you're here in the first place. So you attack the topic again. "Anyone who drinks all by themselves has a problem. What's yours? "

"Y-You really 'r a cretin! Can't figure 't out yerself b'now…"

"If I knew, then I wouldn't ask."

"Seriously?! Have you not seen your new Servant?!" Jeanne Alter angrily barks. Her bar breath is even stronger when you're right in the line of fire, making eye contact with her. The look Jeanne Alter gives you cues you for an answer you've yet to give.

After a moment of quiet reflection you answer "…what's wrong with Ishtar?"

"Not her! NOT HER! That festive THING with the annoyingly coffeehouse-order name!"

Jeanne. d'arc. Alter. Santa. Lily.

Oh. Her. The Santa Claus for this year. What a time that had been. Still, as far as answers went that answer was meaningless. "What's wrong? You should be happy you have a little sister to pick on."

"I don't want her as a little sister! I don't want her, period!" Jeanne Alter whines like an upset jackal, leans back on the stool enough that it's on two back legs of four and tips the glass of brandy into her mouth. She swallows it in one gulp, yet somehow messily enough to spill brown, sweet spirits dribbling down her chin, spilling through the cleavage between her breasts to soak into silky black material of her dress. The stain grows like an open chest wound, resembles a stigmata right over her heart, acting as a sink for every single shred of negativity in her body. "GILLES! BORDEAUUUUX! NOW!" She roars.

"Yes, yes! LA PUCELLEEEEEEE!" He takes the bottle and slides it right into her waiting grasp. She holds her hand in front of the numerous other bottles. The other in front of Jeanne Alter, surely half the liquor cabinet, gently rattle from the light impact of the Bordeaux being claimed. If she hadn't caught it, all of those bottles would have gone the way of a tenpin strike, glass and alcohol every which way.

It's up to you how much this intimidates you, but you don't let it show on your face. You look to the Avenger until you're positive she can feel your gaze on her, and when she locks eyes with you you hold the eye contact with her until you cue her to continue her story.

She pours herself a goblet-full of Bordeaux as she goes on. "Lookit her!" Jeanne Alter says, even though the Christmassy variant in question is nowhere in sight. "That outfit. That nubile, slight frame. That gimmick. 'Ooh, 'm a Santa, 'll give you things you want. Make th' childr'n happy dis Noël, me included?' Ye, she's a stockin' stuffer, alright. Smol'nuff to get stuffed into a stockin', but what about her smol stockin' itself getting' stuff't, huh?"

"Her… small stocking?"

"—Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily, she's jus'za walkin' fetish ob'jeck, an' that reflec's on me 'cuz now 'm jus' reduced to a fetish obj'jeck…"

"You're an Alter, too, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're an Alter. You're already, erm, of sorts, a fetish object."

Jeanne Alter looks positively crushed. The mopey disgruntledness has fled, and all that remains in its place is pure shock.

"N-NOOOoooo?" Her hand shakes sporadically, and red wine sloshes over the edge. "The-That's not, n-not, n-n-not—"

"Your very existence is a perversion of hopes and dreams, done so for selfish reasons," you say. "It is what it is, so let's just accept it for what is."

"IT'S TRUE, A THOUSAND APOLOGIES, JEAAAAAAANNNNE!" Gille de Rais crooned from the far end of the bar, not looking or sounding the least bit sorry with a face full of crocodile tears.

"'M justa, justa plaything, y'say? Izzat all there is? I see. I see. I see." Jeanne Alter takes a hefty swig of the Bordeaux—what remains of it that hasn't sloshed onto the counter, that is—as she contemplates her existence.

Did you…did you do it right?

"…I see. I see. I forgot m'place. All those times? Times I, helped y'all out…noble, but misguided, distracted…"

Uh.

"Justa plaything. A toy. Fer dark, v-vindictive pleasure." Jeanne Alter cradles herself, and it pushes her breasts up beneath her forearms, presses them up against the flimsy material of her dress.

UH.

"Jeanne? It's fine, you—"

"Yer right. It is—fine. This time, mine especially, it's all borrowed. So even a toy…can play with itself. Even a fetish can have its own pleasure, right?"

Jeanne Alter laughs. Jeanne Alter cries. A young woman faced with the truth, and the only means to respond to it. It's the sort of laughter only meant for herself, for her sake alone, and you only happened to be privy to it because you were there at the right time. Unable to say anything, unable to do anything else in response, you indulge in the laughter and tears of a woman for as long as you are able. It is your responsibility to do so.

It only lasts for a minute. Once she collects herself, Jeanne Alter says to you "Master. Drink up. The world's about to end. The King of Magic awaits us all."

"But I'm a minor."

"Sixteen."

"Eh?"

"In my country, the drinking age is sixteen. B-But everyone drinks way before that, so it's fine!"

"We're not in France."

Jeanne Alter materializes her flag and explosively stakes it into the bar counter. The pole sinks a solid meter with her own force and strength alone. With the sound of metal scraping on wood she twists her wrist this way and that, sending the pole deeper and deeper, with the same sort of savagery as if she were torturously digging it into the flesh of a victim. She throws her head back and lets out a deeply sensual sigh in what must be satisfaction, and unhands the firmly-buried flagpole. "I claim. This land. In the name of Orleans! Under the rule of the Dragon Witch!

Her face flushed from all the drink, Jeanne Alter holds the goblet to you. "So—drink, Master."

There's nothing else to do. You tentatively take it. Even in her drunken state she notices. "Dun be shy. Why? You afraid uffa lil' indirect kiss w' Jeanne d'Arc? 'S jus' backwash, Master. Take it, take it. If m'what ye say m'am, then enjoy yerself w'me—" She then calls out "GILLES!" in a rough, high voice that cracks.

"YES?!" the bartender asks.

"BRUT! AT ONCE!"

"OOOH WHEEE! CAN DO, LA PUCELLE!"

Oh, the things you'll do to keep your promise with Jeanne d'Arc, the white one.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

With no other choice, you drink with Jeanne d'Arc, the black one. You drink with her. Nowhere near her inhuman levels of imbibing, of course, but you still drink enough to get a heady buzz going in your brain.

"Giiiilles!"

"Y E S! Y E S! Y E S!?" He's mixing a strawberry margarita as she calls for him.

"Thas'nuff, y'hear? Y're relieved'a duty! I'll-I'll close th' place m'self, now!"

"Are you sure, my dear Jeanne?! Is this enough?! Can you handle that in your present—"

" 'Said m' fine! Go, go, havfun elsewhere, you! YER DITHMITHED!" she slurs very shamelessly.

"V-very well. 'Til the next time you've need of my services, then." Looking ever so slightly dejected, Gilles de Rais leaves the bar to retire to somewhere else.

When he reaches the door, Jeanne Alter calls to him again. "GILLES! A t-tip!" She throws something that bounces off of the ceiling, skips along the wooden floor, and rolls to his feet. Gilles bends down to pick it up. He holds a shining golden statuette of a cloaked magus armed with staff.

"A C-Caster m-MONUM-MENT?! BLESS YOU, SAINT JEANNE! BLESS HER, ALL!" He graciously accepts her reward, nearly clicks his heels together from the excitement, and readily make his way away, clinging to his prize with a deathgrip empowered by faithfulness.

"Merry Christmas, Gilles." Jeanne Alter says to herself. "And good r-riddance." She stands from the bar, wobbles slightly. You stand up to help her walk, but she pushes you aside, rejects your help. You let her go, and she jankily reaches the door. She bolts the doors locked, pulls the blinds down, and turns back around to return to the bar. The whole time you think she's going to fall flat on her face. You wouldn't be mistaken for thinking so. She's downed so much, and she's wearing dark, thin heels of the highest order. It's reasonable to think that there's an accident awaiting her in the future. But, that accident doesn't happen on the way to and from the entrance. She makes it back here in one piece, gives you a heady look, and grabs a bottle of bourbon.

"Come," she says. This time you do closely follow her, for in the next couple of steps she stumbles. But, you're there to catch her, like she wanted you to. "Yer gud fer a few things, 'rntcha, Master?"

"What's the meaning of this, Jeanne?" You ask her. She leans into you, takes a swig straight from the bottle.

"Walk meh. T' that priv't booth." Having that drink, she gestures—with bottle in hand—to a room with hanging curtains tied up at the sides, a table with a large candlestick and a semicircular couch clearly visible through the doorway. The bottle dangling at her side, Jeanne Alter clings closely to your arm with her free hand, a gesture that would have been almost childlike if it weren't for how her breasts pressed against your bicep so.

At her request you lead her into the room, the warm glow of the empty restaurant is distant now, compared to this 'grotto.' With the black saint on your arm, this place feels strangely sanctified, serene and dark, vaguely Genesis-like. Late as it is, to the extent that that means anything in timeless Chaldeas, it would be an easy thing to fall asleep right here in this room, right on those seats around the table. The two of you sit down, and she sets the bourbon on the table.

"Will this do, Jeanne?"

"…No…" Swaying back and forth slightly, steadily in her seat besides you, Jeanne Alter replies. "Dis…dis ithn't enuff yet…"

She leans into you. All the way into you. Her lips latch onto yours, and with a hungry moan she takes your lower lip between her teeth, claiming it. She holds your head in between her gloved hands, keeping you in place.

"Jeanne, I—"

"I'm. A fetish. Use. MEH." Jeanne Alter breathes every single word out. Hard. Every single syllable sends one of her smokey alcohol breaths right into your nose. Your world is enveloped in a haze of booze and fire. It echoes of a wish that asks for joy and violence in equal measure. Makes your mouth water for fine dessert; FLAMBE. She deliberately presses her soft, full chest against yours. Her nipples, stiff, alert visible through the fabric of her dress' top can be felt even through YOUR clothes. "Du eht. Dun seh noh, Master." Every word of hers, every single hungry mumble she makes as she eyes you up makes her wiggle more and more of her sinfully soft body into you.

"I won't. I'll say yes. Yes."

Jeanne Alter tries to lance your tongue with hers. Your tongue already feels sore, trying to put up with her, and she still forces more and more on you. It feels like she'll lick you raw, eat you bit by bit. You fight back in one of the ways that presents itself to you. You wedge your hand between you and Jeanne Alter and squeeze one of her breasts.

"M' breasts! Yer always lookin' at them, Master. I know. Dun' lie." Your touch makes her start and stop all over again, sending her hot breath across your face and driving your senses wild. "Y' look at hers too, doncha. But mine're bett'r." the young woman follows your move with her own, and reaches her hand down your pants, straight past the waists of both your trousers and drawers, and touches you directly. Her silky fingers, still wrapped up in those midnight-pitch gloves, are soft and tantalizing and set you ablaze with each stroke. "Y touch yerself, thinking about them, 'bout yer sexy lil' Avenger keeping you warm at night, huh, Master?!"

"Yes. YES." You squeeze harder, roll it around. Put your second hand to good use. She has two breasts, after all. Surely that's why God put them there on Earth like that. Intelligent design enough to make you believe. As for your chosen patron saint? The choice for worship right now is obvious. Her nipples are like dulled daggers in your palms, the pressure from gripping her French Alps drawing faint lines that get lost amongst your other palm lines.

"H-How w-would you like 't, Master, 'f I strok'd yeh off ri' here inna pants, huh? H-How m-much would 't bothuh yeh?" Jeanne Alter presses her forehead against yours; the tip of her nose presses into yours; her eyelashes, they press against yours – she gets too close, but it's never close enough for either of you.

Meeting her forehead in kind, you share her breath as if it was yours. "I wouldn't care." You manage, and it's from the bottom of your heart, colored with your lust as it runs wild, whitewater-rafting on the alcohol you've had.

"Yeh dun care? Then go down, down." She urges you. "Treat meh. Like y'd treat that fantasy—" Jeanne moves your head down, pushes you in the right direction. After that, you're on auto-erotic autopilot. Her dress' top is in the way. You move her cups to the side. Expose more of that chalky, pale, perfect skin to your hungry eyes. Your hungry tongue. Jeanne Alter's full, naked breasts are yours for the taking. You nip one of her diamond-hard nipples, stiff mounds that crown her soft mountains, and caress the tip with the edge of your tongue. You suckle at her, worship her, massage that which your mouth must leave behind. Still you run your tongue further down, leaving her breast almost radiant with spit, a trail of wet spit that needles between her breasts and slides down her abdomen, over her dress—a dress which still is stained from her many spilled drinks. You taste dried alcohol, and would dare to suck her leftover brandy from her clothes for an eternity, were it not for your mission at hand. Amid her own natural scent, and the bottles she nearly drowned herself in, you can SMELL HER. You're drunk off of her, but your own desire has bolstered you, and you can SMELL HER even amidst all else. So you head down, drawing your tongue down the prime meridian of her body, tasting her all the way from top to bottom, and how you so long for what the bottom promises.

You come to where Jeanne Alter's legs meet. This is it. You don't hesitate. You move her skirt aside, and she's bare down there, right before you.

"No panties?"

"Wh-Who do y-you think I ehm?" Jeanne Alter gives a husky slur, batting her golden eyes right at you, coyly stroking her hair as she awaits your next actions. "Th' white one? P-Protip: sheh d'doesn' wear 'em, either."

"You're amazing." Your spread her with your fingers, relishing the puffy, sticky feeling of her wet lips, and put your tongue to work once more. Tasting her outside, licking at the juices from the inside, before they can escape. Tasting her savory sweetness. Jeanne Alter holds your head in place, groans a sultry groan of utter approval.

Then, the flood comes. Straight from within.

Servants have no need for food. What they consume of that sort is either digested into a piddling source of energy or passed through directly. And she has filled herself to the brim. Letting out a hefty sigh, Jeanne Alter pisses a veritable Grail's-worth of straight cocktail of warm alcohol right into your mouth. It doesn't taste good at all, you tell yourself. All sorts of different flavors profiles and bodies, tannins and bitters and tartness clash together, wines and champagnes and scotch, brandy, absinthe, and more, all making war on your tongue and burning your mouth alive. But it gets you WASTED in moments. The smell alone threatens to knock you out.

"You…you're amazing…" You whisper out when the shower passes, feeling light-headed, yet somehow ready for more.

"Who…d'y think, I ehm…?"

Your pants are tight, oppressive. You need to breathe. You need release. You peel them down, and freedom gives you goose bumps all up and down.

"Took y' long enough, Master. If you wait 'ny longuh you'll get whiskey dick."

"Not. A. Problem." You almost fall onto her, but that's good enough. You rearrange yourself and take her slickened slit oh-so easily. She raises her legs, and you fold them at the knees, lean into them and into her, again and again. She can't resist, and lets out a cry of girlish delight.

"Jeanne-!"

"Call me 'Alter!' " she gasps out in a moment of drunken clarity. "Hit me over the head that I'm someone else's derivative fantasy! U-Use meh, Masterrr! E-Even though i-it's my first t-time, use mehhhh!"

"Alter!" You reply, feeling the nickname roll off your tongue, liking the feel of it. "Alter!"

Alter rocks her body with yours, a cacophonous rhythm as she holds onto you, arms wrapped around your neck, like she's hanging on for dear life. As you pull in and out of her, tasting her body with every stroke, she clenches at you in kind. A tight hug from the inside, begging you, enticing you to stay longer and longer. A promise of mutual pleasure at the cost of all else.

You treat each other well. You can feel the edge looming on the horizon. Your breathing and hers is ragged, blots all other sound. The music is white noise, unheard and unnoticed in the background, not even a distraction. You only finally hear it again after you moan with release, after she lets out a raspy, rolling whine in response. Christmas music plays, and you looks at each other with heavy, lidded eyes, and see how messy the other looks, hair all ajar and sweat beading on your foreheads.

You say, with harsh breath. "Alter…"

"Mas-ter…?" she replies, her breathing like yours.

"Wanna, wanna d' that again?"

"'M still awake. So yes."

You move again. Feel your seed roll around in her, swish around with each of your pumps. Alter's just as good as before. No, better.

"Masterrr…" she beckons. "S-Sit down, you fool, and let me—" She leans into you, attacks your tongue with hers once more, and wiggles in your arms until you concede and sit down on the booth's couch. Alter climbs on top of you, crouches over your lap, and drunkenly rides your body, just like that. Her big breasts move in hypnotic, captivating kind. She falls into a pleasured trance, her head leaning back, rolling with her movements, hair bouncing and flowing, each up and down moving her according to the flow of your bodies. "Mas-terrr, how is it? Izzat good?"

Of course it's good. She knows this. She just wants to hear you say it. You know this, so you tell her how it makes you feel. Alter lets out a devilish chuckle, grips you tightly and reaches behind her for the bourbon. She imbibes straight from it, guzzling it down, pulls it from her lips and, with another giggle, lets the drink splash onto her breasts, trickle down her body—all the way to the point where the two of you are connected. Her small patch of pale, thin hair soaks up what it can and turns a golden blonde color, darker than but reminiscent of her other self's naturally wheaten locks.

"Alter!" You wince out. The bourbon burns, makes you work her faster, just as she wanted. You work her good, and Alter lets you know just how good. She cries out again, clenches hard, pushes you out from the sheer force and lets it rain, a brief flash flood meant for you alone that caught some of the couch in the crossfire.

"Hah? H-How wuzzat, Master?" she says, short of breath but still raring to go. Alter doesn't skip a beat, and she takes you in her grasp, her gloves dirty from your collective juices and more, and replaces you back inside. You ride in her, like it never happened, seeking nothing else but to share more lust with her.

Alter's moves are incessant. Needful. So are yours. The two of you respond to each other, and before either of you know it the fat load you loosed within her is joined with another.

"Masterrrr, wh-what a good feeling…I think, I think I love it inside."

Next, Alter stands up and pulls off and away, leaking your essence and hers in equal measure. She trembles slightly, shaking steadily from side to side like a tree in the breeze. It's all catching up to her now. But, it's still not enough. Even still she craves your touch, desires to be fetishized even further, nothing but gratification until she collapses. "I-I can handle it, one more time. Some come, Master…"

Alter leans back on the table, her eyes burning a pair of holes into your soul. She turns around, keeping her gaze locked with yours, Alter flips her dress over, exposing her round, bubbly rump to you. Her thigh-high nylons draw attention to her legs, draw your eye up, attract it to that fine bottom. She grips her sweaty left cheek, peels it away, and reveals a hint of her bumhole for your eyes only. "'M DEFINITELY d-drunk enough for thiiis." She urges you, the hunger in her voice showing up one more time, to entice you in full.

"Say no more, Alter." You put your hands on her cheeks, one hand on top of hers which was already back there, and prepare to hilt into her rump.

"But-!"

"Yes…?"

"I can get even drunker if you use that bourbon, there."

"…Why the hell not?" You reach for the bottle, wet your whistle—good stuff—and press the tip to her spread butthole. With the last remaining bit, you pour it straight into her gut. Alter lets out a strange sound, but she definitely approves. The bottle pops out, and a little bourbon pours out and trickles into her southern lips.

Good. You hilt into her with ease. She clenches are, gripping you like a pair of new rubber gloves as you move back and forth. Her hips press against yours, pull back, trying to find some semblance of rhythm the two of you can salvage from this twilit haze of drunken foolery.

Either way, somehow, miraculously, you find it, and work with it, exploring each other in ways never before experience by either the Master of Chadeas or Jeanne d'Arc Alter. Of course it was a miracle. She's a saint, black as she may be. She grips you tight, and you take her depths. The speed increases. Your sack begins to slap against her from underneath. Alter touches herself down there, unable and unwilling to resist the temptation. She makes herself leak even more. With one hand you grip her hip, and with the other you tease her right breast, savoring its full softness.

It finally all blurs together. Comes to a head. Enough is enough. The human body can only take so much, even if one of the partners is a Servant. You empty yourself in Alter for a third time, making your mark deep in her butt, and as the two of you moan in helpless afterglow together, your bodies take that as a sign to pass out there on the couch with only peaceful, empty minds free of dreams to await you and Alter.

If this hasn't resolved White Jeanne's troubles, or a relapse occurs, then, well, you could always come back for a follow-up session.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily, the problem child in question whose existence had vexed the big Alter, checked off her gift list. "Well, I GUESS that's okay. Those two blockheads deserve it, even if they really don't. It's Christmastime, after all." Even so, she scowled at the list for a bit longer, for some reason.

"Anyway. List's almost done." She said when she finally allowed herself to stop. "And Santa's always the last to treat herself, anyway. So, let's see, the penultimate gift-receiver to be IS…"

—Gilles de Rais, of the Saber variety.

"Huh. Go figure." Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily noted, with some pause. "Could this be what they call 'Killing two birds with one stone?' "

With bag on shoulder, holy spear in hand, list in skirt pocket, and hopes aflame in her heart, she went on one last journey to bring holiday joy.

"Oh, and no," Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily said aloud to herself, as the thought occurred to her. "I'm not gonna use a Christmas miracle to restock the open bar. That's all of your damn faults."


	2. --Xmas!

_**Mistletoes and Eggnog**_

"Master Reindeer! Master Reindeer! This is bad!"

Jeanne d'Arc Santa Lily Lancer— _Lilansa,_ colloquially—in some circles, at least—is in a tizzy today. Her perfectly average (as high as the bar went for Servants) C-rank strength is more than enough to pale that of mere humans and sends your unfortunate door careening against the opposite wall of your bedroom.

You, used to larger-than-life shenanigans from your army of Servants, take the accidental destruction in stride. "What's your problem?"

She wails, hands on her head, her eyes red with tears, cutting a perfectly pitiful picture. "I-I'm the worst Santa EVER! I f-forgot to g-gift some-o-one! How could I f-forget?! I-I'm THE WORST SANT R!"

You tell her that that's not a problem, that a belated gift is always far more welcome than none at all. "So who is it? Who'd you forget?"

"—I forgot me."

"Of course you're not on the list. You're Santa. That's Santa's list. That list is yours." You matter-of-factly assure the tormented girl.

"Also, that's not a big deal. Just get yourself something nice as a pat on the back. Or do you want another hug?"

"H-Hugs are nice, but th-that's not a gift. And, S-Santa can't give herself a gift anyways, that's improper! I-It's against the holiday spirit!" The Christmassy waif insists.

With a flourish and a twinkle of her spear a crimson, fur-trimmed long cap falls onto your head, past your eyes. "So, you must become the Santa, now. You must become—Master Reindeer Santa-Class Provisional Santa!"

"Your naming sense is showing." You merely retort.

"Oh no, really?!" Jeanne d'Arc Santa Lily Lancer does her hardest to pull the hem of her skirt to her knees. The length of her minidress makes the impulsive attempt to preserve her modesty futile.

Anyway, time to make things right. Well, "right." But, you hate to see her upset. It's honestly terrifying. Equally concerning is that the level of her purity makes it just plain upsetting to see her upset, which is another factor to your desire to aid her.

The look on her face is one of determined, heady faith. In you. Thusly does it seem that yet another Jeanne d'Arc need help from her Master. You're starting to see a trend here.

"With the power vested in me as your Santa, I gift you—" You quickly rummage through your things, trying to find something, anything for her, and stumble upon, well, 'something,' "—this Julia Child cookbook."

"Does it have any cookie recipes?"

"No."

"Santa only eats cookies."

"I bet she does."

"If you mock me I'll put you on the naughty list!"

"I'm shaking in my boots. So take it, Merry Christmas from one Santa to another."

"Santa only eats cookies. It's an objectively terrible gift!"

"Now you know firsthand the pain of your giftees."

"If you mock me I'll seriously put you on the naughty list!"

"I could do the same, since I'm a (provisional) Santa."

"Merry Christmas and a happy new year." With a modicum of obligatory gratitude, she receives the book in her hands. "Peace on Earth and good will towards man." Upon receiving the cookbook, Lilansa stares at the cover, and her piercing gaze becomes more and more intense as the seconds tick by and pile up, like snow into a snowman, into a minute of awkward intensity.

"What's your problem?"

Then, she smiles. Clutches the cookbook to her chest. "S-Spoil me some more…"

"You already have—"

"C-Christ received three gifts from the wise magi! A-And as far as magi go you're worth at least th-three magi in my book! M-Maybe more!"

Flawless logic. Well, who knows. This could be fun. So you start going through your things and dumping gifts on your fellow Santa, watching her reject, then accept, and get happier and happier as she indulges in the attention. You've played worse games.

But, all games must come to an end, especially once you've bequeathed to her absolutely everything you've to your name that's not bolted down in the room. The pile of things, her gifts/your possessions is high and random.

"You're like one of those CEOs who gives themselves an ungodly end of the year bonus."

As she glances from the pile, to you, and back to the pile she gives a silly giggle, sways in place. "Spoil me more!" She challenges you as much as she urges you.

"There's nothing else, Lilansa." You try to tell her, but she replies with the same words she said as before. "Go, go! Spoil me more, Master Reindeer!" Playful curiosity runs rampant in this Santa, making you wonder just how much longer she intends to keep this game up.

Literally, the only thing left in your bedroom to give to her is your bedframe and the naked mattress atop it. Even the pillow, sheets, and blanket made their way to the Jeanne d'Arc Santa Lily Lancer Holiday Fund. There's literally nothing else to give. Humoring her, you push the bed a mere foot in her direction. "It's too big for the pile."

With some airy laughter the littlest Santa throws herself on top of the bareback mattress and lands face-first. She takes a big whiff of the place you sleep(?), rolls around, laughing that silver bells laugh that warms your heart even as you possess the knowledge that she's essentially repossessed every material thing of yours. That detail seems to matter a little less when weighed against the feelings of this confused, earnest Santa Jeanne.

"Master Reindeer—"

"…Yes?"

"Spoil me even more."

How? There's nothing else. She's got everything.

"Give me access to your Christmas miracles and I can get you even more gifts," '–you greedy little holiday Servant,' went unsaid went unsaid but was implicit.

To you, at least. Lilansa less so. "You still have it within your power!" She says with a bit of encouragement as she sits up to look at you, her gloved hands balled up and resting on her thin, pale thighs.

You think on it for a moment, looking her over as you do so, in the hope for a bit of inspiration. "You're a hard-working Santa. Want a massage while you're at it?" you ask, at near random.

She starts, makes a confused noise, looks around as if to check it's okay, but then quickly accedes. "S-Sure—"

"If it's too much, then—"

"My shoulders are stiff! The stiffest in all of Chaldeas!"

You sit on the raw mattress, next to her, and begin to rub her shoulders down with your hands. They feel delicate beneath your touch. Soft. Not the shoulders of a warrior at all. If it's possible for a Servant to get sore shoulders, she certainly is not afflicted by that condition whatsoever.

Even so, your touch makes her hum under her breath. She melts under your touch as surely as a snowflake in front of a fireplace. Lilansa leans even closer to you, makes your job of massaging her down all the easier.

"Master Reindeer. Look up." She whispers to you. You feel something light fall on your hair, and would have been curious enough to check it out even without her urging. You glance up, and you see that the most festive of the Jeannes has her lance lifted up above her head. Tiny snowflakes well forth from the tip, fall lazily to the bed, onto your head and hers alike.

But, that's not why she wants your attention. She wants you to see the mistletoe growing out of the very tip.

A mistletoe spear, meant to pierce your heart this holiday season.

You glance down from the sprig of greenery to look at Lilansa and find that her face is a complementary festive red. Even as she quivers from embarrassment she steadfastly holds her magic lance above the two of you, keeps her gaze locked with yours, asks that wordless question.

Your answer: 'tis the season.

Your lips touch hers. They're soft, small, and taste delightfully seasonal. "Peppermint…" you say aloud to yourself as you break off the kiss. You cannot get in other words past that, as Lilansa takes you right back, one hand stroking the side of your neck and the other still holding onto her holy lance. She breathes through her nose, hard and hot, and it burns your cheeks, turns them a lovely rosy color. This time the Christmas Lancer pulls back, leaving you hanging this time, and raises her weapon again. It glows slightly with magic and starlight and a new twig of mistletoe has appeared, on her white capelet, hanging over her dark bra, the twin cups standing out like two lumps of coal in a field of pure driven snow.

She's bold. She truly is Jeanne d'Arc Alter waiting to happen.

So, you take the hint. You reach behind, into her dress, peel her bra off, are greeted by a pair of delicate, slim breasts, womanly contours almost invisible and tipped with delectably pink nipples already as stiff as icicles. You give a little lick to find that they're hot as a fireplace, and taste just as sweet as her lips. "Master Reindeer… Look down…"

You could have spent an entire winter or a brief snowdrop worshipping her peppermint patties. Time flies. As you peel away a thin spiderweb of spit connects you and Lilansa via your lips and her tips, fragile, sensual, and transient as the holidays themselves. "Let me guess. 'Spoil me.' "

The mistletoe is lower. Below her bellybutton, if you could see it. Somewhere lower. Right over her womb. "Yes, spoil me, Master Reindeer." She urges.

Chaldeas' one and only Master, you, forgoes their mouth and instead reaches up Lilansa's skirt with a hand, the other on top of her thigh and—still clutching the Servant's bra—holding her steady. She's sticky to the touch, and as bare as gap of her thighs between her dress and her leggings. You circle that spot with your fingertips, tickle her, make her squirm, suck her breath in through her teeth. "What's up with Jeannes not wearing panties?" you idly ask aloud. "Weren't you cold with all that snow?"

"Santas don't get cold! Also, why do you know such personal information?"

"I know when you are sleeping; I know when you're awake."

"I-It's co-comfortable, okay?!"

"Don't you mean 'easy?' "

You press just a fingertip inside, but it makes her shake so amazingly, squeak out like a brand-new toy ready to be played with. "I-It's no fair! As a fellow S-Santa, I too n-need to kn-know something secret about you, too, Master Reindeer!"

You respond to that pout accordingly. "I can tell you something personal too, Lilansa." You do so. It makes her blush, and not because of where your curious fingers are doing their Christmas dance. "Okay! Fine!" She agrees, and leans away from you. You let her go, let her do what she needs to do. The lance pulses with—grossly misused—holy holiday power and a single, small, white, fluffy stocking appears in her hand. The spear is dispersed, and she uses her newly freed hand to unzip the trousers of your uniform. Her gloved hand removes your stiffie—and only stiff thing here that ever was, her shoulders were never stiff, as you know—from your shorts, frees it enough for it to stand tall.

The stocking is as soft as angel hair and baby breath on your rod as Lilansa strokes up and down. "How is it? I-Isn't it weird, using a stocking like this?" She asks nervously, yet is unable to stop looking at her work.

"There were hundreds of those stockings. Might as well put one of them to use like, nn, this."

Her pace quickens, out of emphasis or her own lewd thoughts, neither of you may know for sure. "Even if that means defiling it?"

" _Hundreds,"_ you repeat, and lean back on your arms, unable to look away from this lovely girl working on you the way she does. Her eyes meet yours, and that makes Lilansa stroke harder, faster. She's gauging her fellow (provisional) Santa for reactions, trying to vicariously understand and empathize with how a Christmas stocking feels when it's being used to jerk one off.

You make an expression that makes her eyes go wide when you can't withstand her fluffy handiwork. "Keep going!" You beg her, and she keeps stroking even as your body quivers like hers has done under your own touch so many times before. You spew into the stocking, and smell of sex, so faint in the air before, becomes headier.

"Y-You can barely see it through the stocking…" Lilansa says with a note of nervous awe as she regards the stain. "It's on my hands, too, ever so slightly, Master Reindeer…" She peels the sullied Christmas sock off, sees your sullied Christmas cock slightly cloudied with spent.

"Interested?"

"I-I'm curious, Master Reindeer. Wh-What's it like to ride a reindeer, like this?"

"If it spoils you, then all the better."

"I d-don't need to be spoiled by you anymore! I just want y-you."

She climbs on top of you, squats down, takes you in at an agonizing rate, her breaths already getting short even as she mounts your Yule Log into her narrow, damp chimney. Lilansa squeaks as she collapses on top of her Master, her body shakes that she nearly falls off right then and there.

"Cowgirl already, huh. Must be a Jeanne d'Arc thing."

"N-NOOO! We're not even anymorrrreee!" Lilansa whined out in a tilted, turned-up voice, her emotions conspiring against her to make her body feel wonders.

"I know when you've been bad or good, so be good, for goodness' sake." You lean over her, roll her onto her side, lift one of those stocking-decked legs up onto your shoulder, opening her up, ready to receive whatever gifts Santa might have for her.

"S-Say your name for me, Jeanne!"

"Don't ask me when even you can't say it!"

"I said, SAY IT!"

"Jahhnu DARK Atler Sainty Lil'Rancea!"

"Not it!"

"John Dirkall San Lilace!"

"Not it!"

"Jan van Eyck Sandalaphon Sanstarker!"

"Not! It!"

"J-Jeanne d-d'Arc S-Santa Lil-Lil-Lily Lan-Lanc-Lanc—!"

But just as she was about to, for the first time EVER, succeed at saying her full name—a feat most considerable even while getting plowed into catatonic pleasure—you stuff her bra in her mouth.

"Jhnndahhhkksdlylnsnuh!?" she mumbles.

"Nice try! But, that's, not, IT, EITHER—!"

As you enjoy the holy maiden at her purest, yet lewdest, her fingers scramble on the mattress pad, seeking stability and finding none on the slick, spaceage texture. Lilansa slid back and forth, ebb and flow with your movements as your form roiled with hers, pushed up into her slickened, tight, tight body. She shakes and gives out a muffled wail, and seconds later you roll her onto her belly and push your hips against her taut, slim ass until let loose and empty a new round into Santa Jeanne that makes her spray directly onto your mattress. Still reeling from the intensity, with a shaking arm she pulls the balled-up bra gag from out of her mouth, utterly soaked with her own spit. "You…you're on the naughty list, Master Reindeer…"

"That makes you, two, Senpai Santa."

"Oh…Oh no…" she replies dazedly. "How improper…for Santas.

"At least we have a year to clean up our act?" You reply, extra-aware of the debauchery that you and Lilansa had indulged in together.

"But, Master Reindeer," she replies, "—but for now, it's _still December."_

With a mildly wicked grin, and a willing but slight wink, Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily Lancer crawls right up to you and prepares to take you—messed with fluids both yours and hers alike—into her eager mouth.

Sure. Why not? New Year's resolutions were always easier for you to follow if they were done as a group.


	3. The Third One

At first I was peer-pressured into making this.  
Then, I was made an offer I couldn't refuse, and, welp, here we are now.  
a.k.a This was commissioned, I guess I'm doing commissions now

Disclaimer:  
 _The following story contains adult material. Fate/Grand Order and its related concepts and ideas are the intellectual properties of Kinoko Nasu, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., Aniplex, DelightWorks, and other respective rights holders. This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising._

* * *

 _ **Trinity Limit**_

"Shan shan shaan, shan shan shaan, shan shan shan, sha-shaan~!"

Humming the tune to a song she couldn't remember the lyrics to, Jeanne d'Arc Alter Santa Lily Lancer trotted through the bustling halls of Chaldea with a bubbly bounce in her boots and a festive mug full of steaming gingerbread cocoa. Her jingle-bells did their jingle-thing with each of her springy steps.

"Hello!"  
"Hello, as well!" she replied.

"Oh, hello!"  
"Hello to you, too!" she glowed.

"Good morning, little lady!"  
"It's a GREAT morning!" she beamed.

From mighty Servants to humble Chaldean technicians, she spread joy just by _being._ Holiday cheer followed her where she went. Now more than ever she cut a decisively mascot-like picture. She was like a puppy, small and cute and fluffy and said puppy would also surely wear a garish but charming yuletide sweater as it scampered through the corridors with its pitter-patter of little puppy feet. The kind of thing you'd take a picture of, slap it in a Christmas card and mail that back to the folks at home.

"Christmas in July, huh, Lilansa?"  
"Yup! Christmas is the strongest holiday ever!"

As far as those matters concerned her, indeed it was. In Lilansa's presence - _joyeux noël_ \- was no more than a few friendly words away. Unlike the other festively themed Servant, the Santa-centric alter ego of Artoria Alter, her holiday fixation was genuine, pure, and delusional in the innocent ways that only a child could wield. Chaldea was a high-anxiety work environment. The commencement and conclusion of each Order was beyond stressful. Each new singularity preceded wonder, and dread, and called for utterly flexible thinking. Even the downtimes involved butting heads with humanity's greatest forces of personality. Each day was a challenge. No one was ever paid enough for such unprecedented and dangerous work.

Really, it was a small wonder that the smallest of the Jeanne d'Arcs was such a heartwarmer. It was hard not to smile around the quirky little snowflake.

"Hey. Starbucks. What the hell're you so happy for?"

-There was _one_ proverbial Grinch here; one of those forces of personality wouldn't smile at the sight of the tiny Santa. In fact, her mood took a turn for the worse.

Jeanne d'Arc Alter asked a harsh question in a harsh voice. She smacked the warm beverage straight from Lilansa's hands. Lilansa gave a helpless squeak as it splashed all over the floor, and the mug shattered into dozens of pieces of fragmentary ceramic. As soon as it fell apart it disintegrated from the world in a shower of feeble light, drink and vessel both.

The Christmas magic, magic of the strongest holiday, was broken like a cheap spell.

Tears started to well up in her wide, golden eyes as she glared at her elder. "Sister...!"

"Hey! I asked you a question, _brat._ What the hell're you so happy for?" The aggressive Alter was merciless, and immune to the other Alter's joyful atmosphere. The bigger 'sister' grabbed Lilansa by the collar of the girl's capelet and smacked her across her scalp with a gauntleted backhand. It sounded like two pots banging together, and, to Lilansa, her head might as well have been inside one of those same pots. Her clock was cleaned and she reeled. The blow made her grunt. That egged on the black saint. Alter struck Lilansa again, and this time with the black leather of her palm, and a sound like a whip's crack echoed through the hall. "Huh?!"

Beforehand, Jeanne Alter had tended to merely sulk and stew in her Santa self's presence. Antagonism was new. Lilansa didn't like it. "Kn-Knock it off, you jerk!" Lilansa wasn't as strong as Alter, but she was just as fast, and swung her arms around, trying to deflect any more of those hammerblows, trying to get in a good hit on her shrew of a sibling. "STOP!"

" 'Ooh, Merry Christmas! I'm Jeanne d'Whatever! Ho ho ho!' You're a 'ho' alright, you little slut!" Clenching her jaw, Alter's eyes narrowed in anger, visceral and raw and fiery and ready to melt the snowier Jeanne into nothing. "He's MINE!"

"I said STOP!" cried Lilansa, and, with a keynote of desperate viciousness, she grabbed at Alter's breasts through her top and _squeezed_ like she was trying to pop it. Furious, and getting pained, Alter pushed Lilansa up against the wall and tugged at the latter's long and pale ponytail, trying to jerk her head down towards her own yet-to-be-bodacious chest, her barely-there bosom.

"No! You stop! Stop it or you're dead!"

"NO! YOU STOP!"

"Damn slut!" Alter clawed.

"Stupid middle sister!" Lilansa kicked.

"Both of you - stop it at once!"

The big Jeanne and the little Jeanne were pulled apart and kept at arm's length of each other. Alter was still swinging for Lilansa, and was decked square in the face with a solid from-across rightward strike. Said strike made her stumble, left her defenses wide open, and she was kicked into the wall. The wall cracked from impact, and Alter blacked out for a milisecond, but that milisecond was plenty of time for her to lose her bearings.

When she came to, she was face-to-face with Jeanne d'Arc, the white. The original. She had such a look of disapproval on her face, and it was directed right at her - Jeanne d'Arc, the black.

Lilansa, her cheeks dark but fading, scowled and stuck her tongue out.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself!" Jeanne said, shaking her head and sounding so very upset with the circumstances. "You're sisters! You have to act like it!"

"-she's not my sister. She's a mistake."

"No!" replied Jeanne, harshly, passionately. "YOU'RE sisters! WE'RE sisters! Sisters mustn't fight! Not like this! Such a thing is too cruel, simply awful! Can't you see it?!"

Though Jeanne d'Arc spoke with a quality to her words that made it easy enough for others to trust in her and find meaning in said words, to a point it was nearly on the level of hypnosis, those that had utterly lost themselves to their dark ways and sported no desire to remove themselves from their own drowning depths could deny her of that gift. Such fell determination came natural to Alter, her shadow and antithesis.

Even so, for a moment, Alter felt true pangs in her heart.

 _Guilt._

Lilansa, still miffed at Alter, looked bashful, apologetic. Even though it wasn't her fault.

Or...was it?

Alter remembered. She remembered that YES, it WAS indeed Lilansa's fault that she, Alter, had snapped like that.

Barely able to contain her returning anger, Alter let rip an empty complaint, for the sake of getting her words out. "This little slut stinks of MY man's dick."

"He, he's mine, too!"

"I was there first, Starbucks!"

"Don't call me 'Starbucks!'" screeched [s]Starbucks[/s] Lilansa.

"I'll call you whatever I want because I'm bigger and stronger, Eggnog Breath!"

"You're on the naughty list for good, meanie!"

"Shut up, Starbucks!"

"Don't call me 'Starbucks!'"

"STAR! BUCKS! STARBUCKS! STARBUCKS STARBUCKS!"

"You shut up, you stupid hag with boobs for brains I hate you!"

"Nay! There'll be none of that! I forbid it!" Jeanne put her foot down. "Forgive each other already and be done with it or I'll punish you both!"

"But... it's not fair," Alter began to whine, inching-glacially-towards her own tears, feeling particularly vexed and crying foul at the oppression and injustice. "He's MY boyfriend...r-right."

"M-Master Reindeer, is very good, yes..."

"S-So don't take him from me, Me!"

Jeanne butted in, again ready to nip the confrontation in the bud, by force if necessary. More aggressive and determined than usual, due to the personal nature of this case and its relation to herself. A tad more selfish than usual for a selfless warrior-saint, but Jeanne felt the ties of family quite strongly. "Just stop already! What even is this? Fighting over the same man? For shame, have some class! You alters are troublesome."

"Then fine, o' 'Holy Maiden'," Alter spat, with an ugly sneer, "What would you have us do so that we can go back to making kissy faces at each other and have ourselves a mushy-gushy sisterly home life, sister mine? Huuuuh?"

Jeanne chopped Alter over the head and poked her little sister in the eyes. "Bwuh!" Alter spat, but for entirely different reasons. "What I would have you do," said Jeanne, "is have you two give up on him, mutually. Given that you and Lilansa are both altered Servants, you could try and share and be degenerates to your leisure - but I can't approve of sordid relations like that. It's not the Christian way. So give it up, the both of you. Find different beaus elsewhere, if womanly pursuits is what you wish-"

"But...but he's a good man." Alter, unable to let it go, protested.

"Master Reindeer - he's good," Lilansa went likewise. "Really good."

In a highly unsaintly gesture, Jeanne put her hand on her face, for a moment. It made her all the more human, these erstwhile sisterclones of hers. They just wouldn't let it slide. Part of her wanted to know _why._ "Who even is this man, so grand that neither of you shall budge?"

"My Master," said Alter.

"Master Reindeer. My Master," said Lilansa.

" _Our_ Master, I mean," reiterated Alter, her way of giving in, yet also her way of not quite backing down, either.

"...huh?" Jeanne was puzzled. _Our_ Master, Mr. Reliable? Sir Understanding? _"That Master?"_

"Yes."  
"Yes."

It hadn't properly hit Jeanne in her brainmeats until now that the both of them were indeed smitten, in their own ways, with the same fellow. The two alters, her middle and little sisters, fragments and aspects and warpings of her own self, had gravitated to the same man. The two Alters, who could indulge themselves with uninhibitions that she denied herself - they gravitated towards the same person. Different though they were, they were unified in this.

So, with curiosity and deep, contemplative concern, Jeanne asked them both: "Why?"

"He's good."  
" _Really_ good."

Their Master was good, yes. A good person. Good of a magus (not GREAT, but capable of a range of average spellcasting). Good at following orders and making judgment calls. But, the way they spoke of their Master being 'good'...

Jeanne finally realized. Even though her alters of sisters were willful and on the spectrum of sordidity, they boasted blushing, maidenlike smiles.

Against her better judgment, Jeanne's curiosity came back. With a bitter, bitter vengeance enough to rival that of the Dragon Witch that had terrorized Orleans so.

Her fists tightened. "D-Do tell," she asked.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

 _"Good heavens,"_ Jeanne muttered to herself as she wandered the residential wing of the institute in a daze. Though it had been an hour since, she still couldn't get it out of her head. It was scandalous! True bodice-ripper material. Things that she had only imagined as a mere village girl, before she answered her divine calling. Like fairy tales, but rife with overwhelming eroticism instead of sheer phantasm.

"Did I - did I truly have such interests, so early on?" Jeanne asked of herself as she thought back to the days of her youth. Though she herself had not lived such a long life, it was like gazing back into eternity. "Lilansa, oh my..." And the details her sisters had given her, although Jeanne herself had asked for them - so vivid! As if the acts had been burned into their memories, and burned into hers in turn. Merely thinking about it was enough to whisk her away to that exact lewd snapshot.

She was Lilansa, still with seed in her belly from that intimate round, as naked as the mattress that him and her had acted atop.

She imagined the tongue of her Master swirl over a truly forbidden place. A dirty place meant to only vacate, and yet it received, and it felt SO decadent to be serviced there. So decadent that she didn't even need to touch upon herself further to be taken over the edge. Her Master's eager tongue was enough to clean her chimney. It was a bad thing to do, but she loved it, wanted to entrench herself further into the naughty list, damn the obligations of a Santa. Her own lust flowed from her body, like the rush of melted snow as it roared down the narrow mouth of a river valley and down her thighs.

Heat rose to her fair cheeks as the holy woman fumed to herself. "Mating...press..." Yes, even as [ruby=she]Jeanne d'Arc Santa Lily Lancer[/ruby] still reeled from the climax, her Master mounted her and plunged into the girl anew. Steady. Hungrily insistent. It made the bedframe creak and took her all the way to her core. If she lingered on the thought she could still feel her hands grasp at her Master's wrists for support, feeling so small underneath her Master's frame. Her youth made her grip at him tightly, but the slickness of her body's lewd holiday punch and his still-warm eggnog from before made her presentbox a great holiday memory.

Then, her face. Coated with _it_. _She_ had relished it, as much as _she_ would a fresh snowfall. Now that, that was a Kodak moment.

"No! No..." It was too improper, IMMORAL to remember. But even so, Jeanne couldn't help but remember. She had done nothing but remember the things Lilansa, her little sister, had done. That Alter, her not-as-little sister, had done. In the bar. A dark den behind closed doors. For their eyes only. Jeanne started in her tracks as she remembered the act that the Lord had punished the sinful city for. She remembered as [ruby=she]Jeanne d'Arc Alter[/ruby] was sodomized, again, and again, and again, and again, and again and again and again and again and again. Each strike sapped away her life and will. And she relished it like some blackened martyr, the burning stake of violation that went where it should not have gone, yet felt so sinfully sublime.

Doing a lustful venture like that, day in and day out, every moment of every day. No wonder Sodom fell.

Coming to from her visions, she found herself gripping her flagpole, her very symbol, manifesting it from the depths of her consciousness to support herself where she stood. Her body quivered, still. Had she not done so she would have surely fell to her knees. "Ah, oh no, I mustn't think about that. I mustn't think about any of that," Jeanne tried to assure herself. "It's not...for me...?"

She had thought herself to be a saint before a woman. However, all of that reminded her that she had, indeed, been born a woman before she had accepted the role of holy figure. That she had been born a _human_. Reminded her of a path untaken. Of a husband. A child. Children. Things done to procreate said children. Warm embraces. Calloused but gentle hands.

Jeanne d'Arc gripped the pole more tightly than ever.

"It's not...for me. It mustn't be... I'm not like you, sisters. I've not the liberty."

Hers was a decision long made before. She would withstand. She had to. No matter how many of those sensuous recountings-turned-memories assailed her.

Jeanne glanced about and recoiled from the sight. "You must be joking," she said. In her hazy wandering of Chaldea's floors she had managed to find her way to her Master's quarters, to her mild shock. A sign? A temptation? She was too close to it all to tell, and she had to figure it out in a flash, lest she lose sight of herself.

Yes, the other Jeannes, her sister-selves, had done such things. But, the favor of Jeanne d'Arc was not so easily a prize won. Of course, she was a saint; hence, she opened her arms to all. That was her duty, her professionalism by way of divine mandate as an pillar to support God on His earth. Still, her heart lingered. A heart with room not just for anyone who needed the aid, but for _one and only_ -vestigial emotions from her time as a girl. It lingered enough to be conflagrated into a core pillar of her altered self.

The two sisters had found someone-the exact same someone-and gave it their all. Jeanne d'Arc, the white holy maiden, knew well of absolute devotion. Perhaps there was something to this whole (love) affair after all.

Whether it be sign or temptation, she thought it fair to give it a shot. She knocked on her Master's door.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

You get the door and see that your visitor is one of your many Servants, Jeanne d'Arc. When the Ruler saw that you had arrived to answer the door she was suddenly seemingly struck with a moment of realization and stepped back so quickly it was more of a leap. Following that, she greeted you with a small (but awkward?) wave of her hand. "Good day, Master," she said.

"Good day, Jeanne," you replied back. "Do you, uh, have another request?" You picked up on her ever-so-slightly nervous energy, and reflected it back out. While you knew that Jeanne wasn't made out of steel, you knew that she was made of sterner stuff than most, many Servants included. It was strange, and a bit distressing to see her like this.

"Yes," Jeanne said, pausing between the words. She took a deep breath, and her chest rose and fell accordingly. You couldn't help but notice it, your eyes drawn to her body like a magnet so. ...so very much like Alter's. Exactly the same. Your eyes lingered, but they didn't linger long. Anyway! Jeanne. After her pause, so short, but _long enough_ , she asked her question:  
"Would you like to take a walk with me?"

She looked at you with an expression that was both familiar and strange. You didn't know what to make of it, but you did know exactly how to answer her.

"Yes, I would."

God only knew what Jeanne felt at that exact moment as she presented herself before you. All you knew, all that you cared about, at that exact moment, was that your meager gesture was enough for you to witness her delicate smile.

 **.**

 **\- ] | [ -**

 **.**

As to the walk? It was but a walk. Jeanne, she grew more and more comfortable at the passing of every moment. So it seemed to you, at any rate. Whatever it was that did weigh upon her mind, all the various distractions that Chaldea offered-extensions patronized by certain industrious Servants such as Charles Babbage, Nikola Tesla, Cleopatra and Caesar and the young Gilgamesh-all of the sight-seeing and retrospection towards the state of the institute seemed to clear her mind of the intrusive thoughts that she meant to see you for.

So you thought. So you complied. So you indulged her, a saint that had never asked for anything selfish until now.

Though Chaldea's already sizable facilities had grown enough for it to develop its own bizarre infrastructure, eventually your route led you back to your room. Back to where the both of you had started, and Jeanne seemed all the better for it.

"Well, this is it," you say, upon noticing this proverbial end of the line.

"Ah, so it seems," replied Jeanne.

"Still won't tell me what bugged you?"

"Alas, no. There is no need, for the time has passed, and I feel well again."

"I guess even saints and Servants have that time of the month."

"Hardly!" retorted the saint and Servant in question.

You made to open your door as you alleviate the collateral damage of your joke, a snippet of banter closer to the truth than anyone knew or was comfortable with. Maybe. "Kidding, kidding. Best of luck to you. For now, I guess I'll-"

Whatever it was, you _completely_ forgot about it.

Jeanne d'Arc Alter and Jeanne d'Arc Santa Lily Lancer did an absolutely bang-up job of that. Emphasis on the 'bang' of 'bang-up.'

It was a maddening feast for the senses. Of sound; delightful moans from both parties echoed off the bedroom walls and straight into your ears, impossible to ignore. Of scent; the aroma was unmistakably animalistic, unassailable.

Of sight; enticing white accentuated by sensual black. Pale skin and dark hosery, worn on limbs that offered no modesty. The two of them lay there, atop your bed, their nearly-nude bodies intertwined. Alter held Lilansa in place-a python having captured a meal, slowly devouring her prey. Her dark, gloved hands did not so much as dance across her little sister's body, but relentlessly attacked the smaller Jeanne d'Arc at her weakest points. Alter worked a rosy tip of one of Lilansa's breasts between her fingers, rolling it and squeezing it as if to coerce Lilansa's bud into a bloom like Alter's. With her other hand, and a groan upon her lips, Alter circled and circled Lilansa's maidenly line, rapidly teasing the tight little thing open.

It glistened under the fluorescent light. Lilansa's thighs. Her hips. Where those parts met that Alter so insistently serviced. It was too late for her. Her excitement had had flowed, and flowed freely since even before you two arrived. Lilansa's moans were far more anguished than Alter's, though she did not resist. Did not want to resist. As her already rapid breaths speed up to the zenith, Lilansa put a free hand of hers to work. It reached behind her, had been there ever since you and Jeanne had been able to witness it, and shook. The harder it shook, the more intensely Alter's groans were hissed through her teeth. Lilansa may not had been for long, but neither was Alter.

By some twisted miracle, a sinfully and heavenly one, the middle and little d'Arc sisters came at the same time. Their voices hit _that_ tone which assaulted your sensibilities.

Saints as much as sinners would find such atmosphere impossible to resist. The sun would sooner rise in the west.

You, Master and Ruler, had walked in at the wrong time. Or, the perfect time. You could only stare in awe. Jeanne's awkward keen, rosy cheeks and quivering body all, had returned from the battlefield after being seemingly routed in full force, with a battalion of reinforcements in tow. "This cannot be so," Jeanne said, choppily, her dismay directed more to herself than to the nature of her sisters' relations as she took a good, hard look inwards.

Lilansa-cum-Starbucks was the first of the siblings to unhaze herself and care for your presence. "Master...Reindeer..." she called to you.

"Master...Sister Mine, what a pleasant surprise..." Alter followed through, her voice as husky, as needful as her partner's.

"Hey there," you offer a dumbfounded reply, even as you stand there with a pitched tent. Lilansa returns your half-hearted wave of a greeting with one of her own, and Alter's lidded gaze of contains undisguised interest.

"Come now! What's the meaning of this?!" Jeanne, plenty frazzled herself, interjected.

"Whatever is the problem, Sister Mine?" cooed Alter. "Was it not you who had said before that we, as sisters, mustn't fight? Can you not see that we've put aside our differences?" She firmly squeezes both of Lilansa's delicately-jutting breasts with both of her hands, making the Jeannes' little sister jump whilst atop Alter's lap. She squeaked, her kettle getting heated again by Alter's renewed attack.

"Certainly so, but this-such a thing is going too far!"

"Oh, now? Then, this is all," she nibbled Lilansa's earlobe as an interim, Lilansa gave a whimper of approval, and Alter ended the love bite with a kiss to the gently wounded area. "-a sin, isn't it?"

"Doubtlessly so! Doubtlessly! So!"

"Your words would be more convincing if you weren't stuttering like the horny virgin that you are." The Avenger rolled Lilansa off of her lap and stood up from your bed and faced you and Ruler, and the small Lancer complied, already on her knees and following her bigger sister's suit. With slight sways, as if slightly drunk on the afterglow, Alter approached the two newcomers with sensual steps. Slow, deliberate, sexy. Her shortly-cropped hair was messy, semi-clingy with sweat, sweat that also glistened across her mostly bare body. She ran a gloved hand through said hair as she regarded her Master and elder sister with a smoothly predatory gaze. The other hand took Jeanne by the latter's hand.

"I, I am no-"

"Ah, don't even try it. A saint shouldn't lie. You mustn't ruin yourself like that...  
"Not when I can ruin you in so much _better_ ways."

With a deceitfully warm smile, Alter pressed her nude self into Jeanne and took the white saint's lips as she led them both bedside.

"Masterrrrrr...!" Jeanne whined, hopelessly, for her lips were captured so thoroughly by Alter's, and you had a distraction of your own to contend with.

In contrast, Lilansa's approach alongside Alter's, while simultaneous. She felt her afterglow more strongly than Alter did. Like those of a newborn calf, her steps were shaky, but determined, and gravitated towards you. "Master Reindeer..." said Lilansa, "Let's play... Reindeer games, let's do it, again."

Her body just as wet with sweat, her long and fair ponytail just as messy, and her eyes of pale gold just as enraptured and rapturous - she was in no way inferior to Alter. Lilansa tugged on your clothes needfully, as shaky but deliberately as her approach.

You couldn't speak for Jeanne, but YOU had no intention to resist. You closed the door behind you, locked it up nice and tight, and picked up the little, bare saint into your arms and carried her to the bed. This time, it was Lilansa who kissed you, and you reciprocated without even needing to think it over. She gave a pleased hum and wrapped her begloved arms around your neck.

On closer examination, you saw that your sheets are already humid. Humid with sweat, and everything else feasibly erotic. Of sight, once more.

Jeanne was anxious, wanted to escape this trap before it was too late. "Master-! You're not-nn, uah!-serious, are you?"

"We're all _very serious_ about this. Except for you, Sister Mine," Alter slithered in. With one arm keeping her sister seated on the bed, atop Jeanne's thigh, Alter lifed Jeanne's skirt, and the latter was helpless to resist. "Behold, dear Master, our bitch of a big sister is the most needful one here! She was wet the whole time she watched our sisterly climax! Was wet for even longer than that before, I'd say! What say you, Jeanne? You wanted to bounce on his cock the whole time you were on that little walk together, didn't you?"

"Nay, I-!"

Alter's lips were on Jeanne's once more, and this time her tongue forced her way into her elder sister's mouth. It was forceful, an attack, and Jeanne had to utterly defend against it. Their hums, one of resistance, the other of delight, mingled, nearly impossible to tell apart. When Alter broke the kiss off, she again spoke. "Bet you even tried to hold his hand but were too reluctant to go through with it!"

"You don't know-"

But again, her words were cut off by Alter's aggressions.

"Oh, _Jeanne_ , I've suggested as much, but let me say it outright: every time you lie, I'll kiss you. For your words betray you, betray _us_ -

"-but this body of yours is far too honest for your own good."

Alter pushed Jeanne onto the bed. Atop the messy sheets, sheets that already stunk of raw sex, and would surely be soiled with more lewdness in mere moments hence. The trouble-maker of a middle sister flipped Jeanne's skirt all the way up, past the breastplate encircled about the saint's belly, exposing everything. Jeanne's hands were pinned down to the bed, Alter's raw strength enough to keep Jeanne firmly in place, and _right where her darkness wanted her to be._

"So very ready, and yet, hardly enough," She drew her hand up the stockings of Jeanne's thighs, and the latter swallowed air hard, the touch making her so, so very aware of those carnal feelings that she didn't want to, couldn't indulge. Hadn't the right to.

Alter didn't give a shit. She'd spare more damns for a pebble on the side of a warpath-and said warpath was to be a double-pronged frontal charge straight at Jeanne d'Arc's abstinence.

Alter's fingers spread into a v-shape. The vee caressed Jeanne, right on the precipice, above the lips to her holy place, that which was not supposed to be hers to give away. So close, right on the edge - Jeanne did know whether to wail or hold her breath. Her moan, shamefully involuntary, came out as a hiccup. "Alterrr..." said Jeanne, "Please...!"

The middle sister heard the elder sister's words, and only grinned a naughty grin, her eyes narrowed with authoritative mein. "Though it'd be a treat-" Alter's hand ran directly over Jeanne, and it made the goodly saint shiver. "-to violate you-" Alter's fingertips pressed against Jeanne's lips, threatened to press _past_ Jeanne's lips, and Alter, as slowly and surely as the spectre of death, whispered into Jeanne's ear, "-have you bleed allllll over MY fingers-" The very tips were into the breach, feeling like the edge of a blade at one's neck. Jeanne gasped, and gasped, and gasped, quietly, nervously, a reduced to a mass of confusion and desire, "it's not my place to do so." The dragon witch's fingertips pulled out and away at the very last moment, and trailed Jeanne's sticky lust in their wake, the betrayal of the Orleans' maiden's unbidden arousal. "After all," said Alter, "my desires-are yours."

For a moment, Jeanne was granted reprieve from her thirsty alter ego, but such relief rang hollow.

"Hey, squirt," Alter addressed Lilansa. "Big Sis needs a touch-up before her big moment. Be a doll and fetch our Master's toiletries."

"I'm not, nn, a doll," said the girl, her breath hot and steamy and short on your face. Lilansa had been busying herself with you the entire time, lips on yours and treating you to gentle strokes that kept you excited the whole time. "I'm a, a Santa!"

"Even better," sensously remarked Alter. " _Jeanne_ here needs a real nice gift, you see. The reindeer games can wait." She toyed with the small patch of flaxen hair that sprouted above the hole.

"I see," said Lilansa. "I'll be back, Master Reindeer," and she reluctantly, yet dutifully peeled herself away from you, never once taking her eyes off of you until she had no choice. Her cute little pert thing of a butt wiggled with her hips as she stole away to your chest of drawers and pulled out a bag of supplies.

Alter noticed your freed and serviced cock, standing full, slightly aglisten with leaking lust. "I see you work fast, Starbucks. Congrats."

"Don't...call me Starbucks, Sister." Starbucks/Lilansa gave a pout of peeved-off disapproval, but that was it.

At least my sisters aren't fighting anymore, thought Jeanne d'Arc.

"Merry Christmas!" said Lilansa, as the little alter brought the larger alter the hygenics.

"Well done," said Alter. "Now then, Little Sis, be a doll and take over keeping her down."

"I'm not a doll, I'm a Santa."

"I could just eat you up. Actually, I will, in time. For now..."

For now, her hands freed via Lilansa taking over keeping Jeanne captive, Alter took up a bottle of cream and a razor, both belonging to their Master. You can't help but take note. "You didn't seem to mind being a little wild down there when we did it in the bar. What gives?"

 _"I,"_ with a _pssh_ she applied a thin layer of cream onto Jeanne's nethers and massaged it into a white froth, "was too drunk to care about that. Sister Mine, here, is perfectly un-inebriated; she's not past her embarrassment yet, so of course she'd want to be clean for _"you."_

You shrug empathetically. "Makes sense to me."

"No!" bemoaned Jeanne. "It does not whatsoever!"

"Indeed, emotions are hardly sensical, my Master."

"Alter, you are agreeing with me but I don't like iiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" Jeanne's voiced hiked, but that was because Alter brought down the razor onto what little hair Jeanne had down there. Though a tool wielded by a Servant was capable of damaging other Servants, a threat of injury was certainly not the cause of Jeanne's acute anguish.

"There, there. Soon, the good girl will get her gift, and be like us," said Lilansa, as Alter scraped away Jeanne's hair. And indeed, you notice that both of Jeanne's little sisters are clean as whistles down under.

"Huh, so it is," you said.

"Your little fuckbunnies need to be nice for you, Master," said Alter.

"Nice for you," Lilansa, though she hadn't any hair down there from the start.

"Nice...for Master...?!" Jeanne gasped, her arousal creeping towards the event horizon. Just in time, for that last stroke came away clean, and Jeanne, down there, was as nude as the rest of them - all three of their cunts identical in this regard.

"Lo, nice for Master," said Alter, and she ran her hand over Jeanne's newly-smooth skin. Without warning, she smacked the freshly shaved cunt, and a pleasant slapping sound regaled your ears. Of sound; and Jeanne's voice came out high and loud, more than ever before. She blushed terribly, looked at you with pleading eyes, and her sisters' gazes were very expectant.

"Master..." said Jeanne, as her cunt twitch, leaked shininess. "Master, I..."

Flashes of thoughts crossed her mind as the end of the prelude approached. Of half-remembered dreams, deja vu of the time she had fought along at her Master's side during Orleans. Of shared pain and triumph.

"Remember, Sister Mine-"

Of the pretty white box with the shiny blue bow, mere obligation chocolate given on St. Valentine's Day, but her heart had, within the depths of her chest, throbbed to give it to her Master.

"-if you lie-"

Honestly, if she could quantify her relationship with her Master, then she'd be at Bond Level 5. Close, good synergy, affection to be found there, yes, but still...

"-I'll kiss you."

She couldn't hear the voice of God anymore. There was guidance to offer her. She could only make this choice herself.

Her breaths were deep, and hard [s]like something she wanted deep down, in her core[/s]. Her ample bosom rose and fell with each -halation [s]what would her Master do to them, in passion's throes?[/s]. The combined might of the silver-haired, golden eyed Jeannes left her unable to move [s]what would _she_ do to _her_ Master?[/s]

"Master... Master, I..."

Jeanne looked at her Master directly; her eyes wavered with need, but she refused to tear them away.

"...I want it so much that it hurts."

Her feelings, so complex and so confused, came out like the base confession of a horny schoolgirl.

"Sorry it's been tough on you - I'll make it worth your while."

The Alter Sisters lifted Jeanne's legs up and down, and with herself so exposed and vulnerable and _ready_ you pressed into Jeanne's soppy slit.

"M-Mating press?!" Jeanne stammered out, a wince in her eyes as the absoluteness of her arousal, hours in the making, made her first time ever a smooth affair. You pull back, and your shaft is stained with a streak of slick red. "Yes indeed, that cherry has been popped. Fine job, Master," at the sight of that sexual trope being fulfilled, Alter praised you. "She-I, I mean, we-we're just that tight, so a little cliche like that is to be expected. You don't hate virgins that bleed on their first time, don't you?"

"You don't, do you?" already feeling it, Jeanne's teeth chattered, and she repeated the question with a look of concern.

"It's, all, good!" you tell her, tell them, and resume to stroke in and out of Jeanne, as Alter and Lilansa look pleased with themselves and highly, _highly_ interested in what you plan to do next to the root of their existence.

"Master! Nn! M-Master! S-Slower, please? Or, faster? I, I don't, don't knoooow..."

"Definitely take her faster," Alter said, and she ripped Jeanne's top apart, exposing the latter's breasts to the open air of your bedroom. Feeling up one of Jeanne's breasts, Alter took the blonde-haired saint's lips for her own, as before.

"I'm not, lying, am I...?" Jeanne could barely get out her protest in between Alter's aggressive affections.

" 'Course not," replied Alter, and she gave her another kiss, and another. "You're just too adorable to let slip, Sister Mine."

Lilansa, still holding one of Jeanne's feet down to the bedsheets, pecked her on the forehead. "This is your gift. You should enjoy it, Sister."

The remembered feelings of the pseudo-communal memories came back. I.E., Jeanne was reminded that, yes, she liked the mating press. Liked it A LOT. Even without the sympathetic experience with Lilansa, Jeanne would like it. It was not just a matter of her Master's technique, which, to her meagre knowledge, was FINE, nor was it down to her preferences, which she couldn't possibly know yet because of her inexperience.

It was simple: Jeanne was as wet as a bucket of water, so of course it felt good (even if it stung some).

You hilted in her to the core with ease. "Master, oh! Master!" She didn't know what to say. Dirty talk was beyond her. All she could do was call to him like she was simple. "Ahhah, Master!" Everything else was too hard. It felt TOO GOOD. Also good was the angle; her Master stroked into her core with a nearly mechanical precision, and sweat feel from their face onto her body.

Her body-Jeanne could no longer control her body. She didn't know anymore. Her fate was no longer up to her. Her fate was no longer in the hands of God-it was in the cock of her Master.

When Jeanne was but a girl with maidenly fancies she had no outlet before. Now, there was release. She had YOU.

"Master, Masterrrrrrr!" Jeanne wailed, her body freed, her sisters no longer there to pin her legs down. She no longer needed the coercion. Her instinctual desire kept her there, kept her there under you as you gave it to her harder and harder. "Oh, my Lord in Heavennnn~~~!" Jeanne's hips quivered tremendously, and she squeezed hard around you. With a sharp buck you were kicked straight from her body, hit with a gush of fluid shot straight from her core. With trembles down her thighs that went all the way to her toes, her lust splashed against you like a crotch-to-crotch weapon, and she let out a cry like none other.

"I didn't peg you for a quick shot, Jeanne."

"D-Don't be mean, Master!" she groaned, slightly in a fugue. "Wait. Is that... a bad thing?" Of course, Jeanne'd have no way to know, for the Virgin of Orleans had remained a virgin until recently.

Alter, the middle sister with the wild side, saw it fit to educate her older sister in this matter. "For our Master, it'd be unfortunate. For you, it's a boon."

"Boon...?" Jeanne asked, dazed still.

"It means you get to experience _that_ again," Alter answered with a smirk. "To be able to ride the waves of pleasure over and over so quickly is a privilege alloted to women."

"The gift that keeps on giving!" Lilansa gave a thumbs-up.

"So, let's keep on giving!" you say, and wrestle Jeanne into a position atop you.

"What? Master!"

"I'm not through, yet. Neither are you, right?"

"Am, I?"

She thought on it.

"-it does feel lonely, Master."

"It's still your first time, Jeanne. Work it until you're happy."

With a countenance that spoke of her needful determination, Jeanne dispelled much of her outfit, the wrappings on her arms and legs still there. She clenched a fist over her ample bosom, and bashfully ground against your still quite-excited weapon of war, wincing slightly as she did so, already feeling the need from just that much.

"Servant Ruler, Jeanne d'Arc, heading off to the next battlefield!" and she sucked it up and took you on again. "Ahh, Master!"

"Cowgirl, again," you duly note.

"What's wrong with this?" she asked, her voice already cracking.

"Nothing. Just realized that it's _definitely_ a Jeanne d'Arc thing."

"It's true. It's your favorite, isn't it, Sister Mine?"

"I-Is it not too early, to say such a thing?"

"Hardly. It's my favorite, and Starbucks' favorite, so it must be your favorite, too!"

Jeanne offered little protest, and her hips did all the talking in her stead. Having been enraptured by it so soon, yes, it truly must've been the position she had most compatibility with. Moving inside of her, watching her breasts bounce with each gallop, Jeanne d'Arc felt as if she were atop a horse, riding the thing into battle, adrenaline and focus pumping through her veins like lifeblood. But, with every gallop of riding this horse, riding you, she felt every inch of you course through her maiden-, nay, womanhood. Her long, blonde braid shook like a tail in accordance to the undulations of her own body. Riding the horse that was you made her slick with sweat and more. Let her ride faster. "Jeanne," you taste her name upon your tongue, losing the ability to focus on little else but this divinely inspired beauty atop you, desiring to feel more of you in turn.

The battlefield drew closer, and Jeanne egged the horse on-you. She leaned over, worked her hips with a raw instinct, and clapped against your lap. Jeanne leaned into you, her chest meeting with yours, her breath hot and heavy on your face, her azure eyes piercing into yours.

Many things happen at once. You take Jeanne's lips, take her away from Alter even as you taste Alter's distinct flavor upon Jeanne. She tastes warm, sunny. You can hardly stand it, and belt into her harder, grasp at her buttocks, feeling firm and full in your palms. Jeanne groans, exclamations or protests you know not of, but it is muffled into you just the same.

The most important thing to come of this-

"Christmas magic!" called Lilansa, and the air tingled with a surge of prana.

"NGGGGHH?!" This time, Jeanne's voice speaks of utter surprise. "Ha! That's rich!" Alter laughs. Jeanne squirms, making you both feel it nice and good. Curious, you feel around, looking for what ails Jeanne so.

Eventually, you find it: a bunch of candy canes, curvy end up, are sticking out of her asshole. "Lilansa! What in heaven's name-?!"

"A holiday surprise, Sister. You ought to be grateful!"

"I don't want to hear such declarations from a troublemaker who's treating my derrière like a candy diiiiiiish!"

"Scoot over, squirt. Lemme get a taste of our dear sister's butt goodies, too."

"Not you too, Alter!"

"I wish my tongue was long enough to join the three of them."

Even as you say that, you push her hips down, make her ride you harder and sloppier.

"Masterrr! If your tongue was that long, you'd be a demon, for sure!"

"If that's so, then that explains why our Master's quite the stud in the sack!" Alter declared, in between licking the sweets and the stretched chocolate star of the agonizing saint. "Anyway, work on improving your sexy talk, Sister Mine, otherwise Master'll never learn to love you!"

"Hard not to love this!" you yourself declare, as you go even faster, as the Alter Sisters were made to bob their heads up and down like nodding dog toys as they tasted the peppermint upon the sticks that impaled their elder.

"If-! If you-! If you three do that-! To meee-!"

"Then do it already, we want turns with our Master, too!"

"Yeah! You love-stupid sister!"

Unable to take it anymore, attacked in her cunt and ass at once, Jeanne came, again, dryer than before, but none the less mighty an experience inflicted upon herself. Her voice was loud, and decadent, and the sight of her brow scrunched in pleasure, her pretty eyes moist, and her soft skin against yours, you loose yourself inside of Jeanne. Each hot pump makes her whimper in satisfied exhaustion.

Thus, Jeanne d'Arc of the Chaldeans have her first time with her beloved Master.

"Master..." said Jeanne, finally ready to get honest with her feelings. "That was, that was fantast-"

And then Alter pulled her off their Master and tossed her aside to the foot of the bed.

.

\- ] | [ -

.

"Good, now that that's out of the way, we can get to the real good stuff, Master."

"What was wrong with that?" asked Jeanne, looking a tad annoyed for getting thrown nearly off of the bed.

"Pure love isn't so bad, I guess," admitted Alter, which quickly turned to criticism. "But you're utter shit at dirty talk, _Sister Mine_."

"Alter...!"

"Don't worry, Big Sis. You're new at this, so I'll show you the ropes with a first-hand demonstration." Alter leaned over your, her body as naked and full as Jeanne's, identical in virtually every way save for the extra-fair pallor of her skintone, and flashed you a seductive look. "I'm so hot for you right now, Master. Let's fuck and fuck until our bodies run dry."

"Needs work, sistAH!" critiqued Lilansa, as she immediately squatted on your penis and took you into her hot little Christmas stocking. Her wetness, her tightness, aching for your since the start of this whole charade, greedily suck you in all the way, nubby little walls making it good for the both of you.

"You little tart! That's what I would've done if you flirting your ass off with this guy!"

"Santa must climb down a chimney! Or on one, in this caaaaase!"

"Whatever! I commend you for the initiative! Master, you'd better make her feel good, or else!" And Alter leaned over to the moaning Lilansa, kissed her sister on the lips, and stuck a finger up the little d'Arc's butt.

"Master, ah, Reindeer! Is this my present, hnng!, for being a good girl?"

"No, you're being naughty!" you grunt out. "But I like naughty girls just fine, so it's good!"

"It's good," panted Lilansa, "to be naughty!"

To prove it to her, you bend forward, her still riding your flocked-up Christmas tree, Alter still fingering the girl's tight butt, and run your tongue over Lilansa's exposed armpit. It tastes exactly of salted peppermint bark. She lets out a coo, tightens around you and Alter. "Master!" called Jeanne. "Don't forget about me, though my sisters be temptresses so!" She leaned into you, breasts pressing into your arm, and immediately works you into a French kiss, her tongue fighting for attention with yours.

Though you had just came, the combined efforts of no less than three Jeanne d'Arcs is enough for a miracle to occur, and you feel the pleasure well again. "Lilansa!" you call to the one riding you this time. "I know what I want for Christmas this year!"

"Yesss!?" she answers back, already losing herself.

"I want a _holiday creampie!"_ and you take that present of your personal Santa without even waiting for her response. A fine thing, since Santa already endeavors to help the good boys and girls of the world, and to her, you're the goodest of them all.

"My turn!" Aggressively went Alter, who, gently but firmly and rapidly, lifted Lilansa off of you, and began to suck you clean, as if she were a wild animal remarking her territory to be fresh. Her hand pumped up and down, as if she indulged in that insurance in case you couldn't get it up again for her. Such concerns were needless. Three Jeannes at once, all hungering for you, was something that could never cool your fires. At this very rate you all really would work each other until dry.

Until then, Alter pushes you back even further onto your bed, and presents herself, butt first. You took the hint, and took her squarely from behind, rewarding her animalistic behavior with animalistic lust. Doggy was an old standby, but a crowdpleaser-definitely a way to enjoy Alter's shapely butt. Her meat jiggling from each smack-inducing surge, Alter turns her head around, and cheekily sticks her tongue out at you, feeling like a rock star, daring you to REALLY make her feel it.

You grab her by the hips and accept the challenge.

"That's it, Master! Fuck me hard, damn it!"

"Still needs work, you stupid-crite sister," Lilansa deadpanned, and she slid underneath Alter, her tongue already setting to work on her slightly-older sister. "Wh-Whatever, Starbucks! Get bent! Who the hell cares?!" Alter retorted, sounding like the moody teenage girl she resembled, but tripping over her words because Lilansa, being a Jeanne, knew exactly what a Jeanne liked the most. "F-Fine! As long as it gets me off and wet, it'll make it all the better for the both of us! So, keep it coming, Santa!"

"Your mouth is foul, little sister. I'll keep it nice and shut so that our Master can punish a naughty girl like you," Jeanne, eager to get back into the fight, mustered the courage to kiss Alter back, fondle the dangling tits of her darker self, twist a hard, hot nipple between her fingers as if she were kneading a lump of clay. Yes, Jeanne was very brave, very determined, and showed equal adoration to Lilansa. Though the smaller Servant lay underneath the larger alter, Jeanne fingered her all the same, two gloved fingers sliding in and out of the tightest snatch of the trio, trailing damp lust and your spent seed with each motion.

Lilansa licked harder. Jeanne kissed more deeply, worked her fingers and Alter's nipples to the bone. Alter bounced her hips, working with and against you, as if fighting you to see who can make the other climax first. Such a battle was one, like her sister before her, that she lost. Noisily. Her holy water trickled down her thighs, splashed onto Lilansa's face, and the Lancer kept on tasting it, finding something inseparably tasty about Alter.

Alter lost that bout no less than three times, one for each of her partners. Number 3 she would argue as a tie, for you came once she did, sent whitewash straight down her channelway.

Lilansa licked the trickle, savoring it like it were a Christmas pudding.

"Hey...Starbucks...it's already done, you dope..."

"Don't...call me Starbucks..."

At that, all three of the Jeannes had their wombs overflowing with your hot seed.

Yet, it wasn't enough. The way Jeanne looked at you, the way Alter liked her lips, the way that Lilansa clung to you, to her Master Reindeer, and their signalling, meant that they wanted more from you.

You knew that if all that wasn't enough to appease the lewd saints, then you knew what would. Their miracles, real or placebo, you knew not nor cared not, kept you in a hungry mood, too. Thus, you reached into your drawer and pulled out a bottle of glistening fluid.

"Oil, Master Reindeer?"

"Of course," said Alter. "We're never doing the alcohol lube thing again. Christ, that stung the morning after. Or, at least, do it after you've used actual lube, like that thing." Alter flashed a dirty, _dirty_ smile and a playful wink. "You deserve the maiden voyage, little sis."

"I've never done it before. In the butt, I mean. Not like that one time, with your tongue, Master Reindeer."

Jeanne recalled that recounted memory, and it made her twitch with forced remembered delight. If that was only at the surface and a little past, then to do such a thing into the very core...

Alter wasted no time; she snagged the bottle from your hands, squirted some into her hands, and worked the oil around and into her butt, making a grand show of it. She winked at you, stuck her tongue out, already began using two and three fingers to stretch it open. Jeanne rolled her eyes a bit, but did little else but sit there patiently, candy canes still up her ass.

Candy canes still up her ass?

"Jeanne?"

"Ah, this?! It's, uh, convenient. And it feels, well, nice, knowing that you'd come for it, someday..."

What sort of person did Jeanne take you for, to assume you'd want to pillage her ass before this saintly orgy was over and done with?

What sort of person were you that that was accurate?

Lilansa, however, happily applied, wiping it around as she hummed yet another Christmas song that she knew not the lyrics to.

Maybe you ought to teach her one for real, someday.

"Master Reindeer," she waved to you, eager as can be. "Let's go for a ride, Master Reindeer!" Gingerly, you complied, rolled into her from behind, the sensation of her tight butt entirely different from the feel of her tight giftbox. Hot, a tad rubbery, her oil application was good, for a beginner. "Master, ouf, Reindeer-it's tough..."

Keep at it, and carefully, you told her. Don't rush this, unless you're the type who gets off on the burn. Advising her so, you threw a knowing glance in Alter's direction. She, shrugged as she touched herself to the sight of you greasehounding her holiday-themed little sister from below. "Don't you worry about the little devil. She's got quite the closeted anal fixation. I'd know."

"It's tough, Master Reindeer, but it feels good, good...!"

"Told you so."

"She's a small thing, but she ain't made of glass. She's Jeanne d'Arc. Get rougher with her, she'll _like_ it."

With a shrug of your own upon your shoulders, and a hungry, perverse need to sate said hungry, perverse need, you pick up the pace, ready to discard your own advice towards Lilansa, but restraining yourself just so. Even so, it's enough to send her to the North Pole and back, her voice a pitchy, enticing sound. Eventually, the sight tempted Alter so; she crawled over to Lilansa, and kissed upon the Lancer's breast mounds, tasting her salted peppermint bark for herself from the girl's nipples. Jeanne d'Arc, still with festive candies sticking out from her own butt, removed a pair of the treats, licked them wet, and moved the treats in and out of Lilansa's slightly agap slit. "Sister! Ahh! The both of you, and Master Reindeer, it's too much~!"

"Then prove it, Little Miss Santa Claus," you tell her as your paces quickens, threatens to spill forth into Lilansa's lonely little butthole for the first time ever. This time, however, the burden of proof lay with you. This time, it was you who spewed first, rewarded Lilansa with her very first chocolate cream pie. The feeling of her butt being stuffed full made her quiver and leak right over the candy canes. Crimson stripes into crimson streaks.

"Way to baptise our little sister there, Master. Good stuff, but you can do even better can't you?" The Avenger teased you, grinding her butt against you. "She's wet, Master Reindeer," said Lilansa. "It'll be easy for you!" she cheered you own with a little fist bump. The small saint had hot seed in both of her holes, and yet was still hungry for this and that with her sisters.

Taking Alter off-guard, you pushed her onto her side, onto your steamy bedsheets, and spooned right into her. Her asterisk became an oh, and so did her wry laugh. Lilansa immediately went for Alter's vulnerable breasts, and Jeanne put more candy canes to use. "Master, Alter here needs a bit more penitence training. Do oblige her and help her regain her footing on the Lord's path. A witch should be impaled at least a hundred times before she is allowed to offer true repentance!"

"You're starting to sound a lot like her, Jeanne."

She forced one of the sweet treats into Alter's mouth, shutting the fell saint up even as the latter was reamed from head to hilt by you and your miraculously a-throb cock. No more wisecracks or blasphemies from her as her crack itself was utterly owned by you. Alter could only mumble in ecstasy.

Eventually, you blessed Alter in the ass with your holy spunk. One, two, nine pumps-like nine lashes-and you stroked yourself out into her, the Dragon Witch of Orleans. You didn't know if she felt penitence of any sort, but she sure looked as satisfied as a fat cat after a good meal.

"Master..."

"I haven't forgotten you, Jeanne. Let's have ourselves a grand time."

"Master," Jeanne said, desire in her words. You grabbed the bunch of candy canes, still in her ass, and pulled free. You tossed them aside, to fall onto your bedclothes, leaving Jeanne's gaped ass in your wake. With the donut wide and the tube narrow, Jeanne was pressed up with her hands against your headboard, braid tossed over her shoulder. With her wide opened butthole in front of you, it was child's play to sheath all the way. Jeanne shivered harder and harder the more centimeters of you went inside. She shivered twice as hard when you pulled away, as if missing you already even though you were still there right behind her.

With cum dripping from both of their holes, Alter and Lilansa tackled Jeanne d'Arc alongside you. Both Alter Sisters pushed her hips back onto yours, giving her little rest in-between your strokes. Both of them attacked Jeanne's free valley, mustering their forces to send a pair of fingers each into her depths-four in total to you with her body as they saw fit. As part of this foursome, Jeanne softly cried wordlessly.

"Look, Master~"

"Yes, look, look-Master Reindeer~"

"Doesn't she look beautiful like this? Totally sexy?"

"Good, right?"

"Masterrr-it's great, isn't it? A body no one else can enjoy but you?

"Of course you are, Jeanne."

The way you put it, you spoke to all three of them. They who were supposed to have originally been the Holy Virgin of Orleans, who devoted her body to no one else but God-but only because there had been no one else truly worthy that she could devote herself to alongside [ruby=her]their[/ruby] divine calling.

Lucky you, one and only Master of Chaldea. Lucky you, to be in the good graces of such a pivotal and beautiful and affectionate saint.

With her, with them at your side, you are unstoppable, and the future is as good as saved.

In short, it was a perfectly standard but nonetheless lovely, was a Christmas-in-July miracle.

* * *

A/N: there had better not be a swimsuit jeanne in FGO Summer 2017 because I SWEAR TO GOD


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